Maybe it was any one of a dozen other things. Or, maybe it was when the gang of kids in the park threw rocks at a group of African American girls who’d come to the local skating rink, killing one of them and sparking a race riot. Or, maybe it was when my father started hitting us kids. Maybe it was around the time my best friend got sick with leukemia and wasted away over the course of a long, bad summer. I’m not sure when I stopped believing that there was a werewolf on the second floor landing.
I knew that unless I came up the stairs with my back pressed against the far wall, that a hairy arm would reach out between the slats in the second floor rail and slash me. Something that crouched out of sight and panted like a dog. There was something in it-I was sure of that. When I was little, I remember being afraid of the darkness at the top of the stairs. We know our fears and they certainly know us. Even if it’s similar, it won’t be the same thing. Or the thing that scares your best friend. I bet it’s not the same thing that scares me. Scary Out There It’s Scary Out There: An Introduction
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